When the world ends, what’s going to take its place?
55
Monday, December 3
2:32 P.M.
United Nations, Manhattan
11 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
“The thing we’ve failed to consider is that none of these solutions might work at all,” said Mexico. “ReBirth is out there, and it’s going to stay out there, and there’s no avoiding it. Every plan we’ve come up with either ignores it, or tries to defend against it. Maybe it’s time to embrace it.”
Lyle tried not to roll his eyes. He’d been in the UN building for nearly a week now, shot down a hundred flawed theories, listened to a thousand broken plans that nobody could agree on. A mob had rushed the fence again on Sunday, and this time someone actually made it over the top before getting shot through the head by a guard. The mob had shot back, and the guards had been forced to retreat; only tear gas and snipers had dispersed them in the end.
Lyle was fed up with the assembly’s indecision, but on the other hand … what were they supposed to decide? How were they supposed to find a solution to an unsolvable situation? And worse yet, how were they supposed to stop trying? The Chinese-Russian war raged on, Southeast Asia was on the brink of at least five wars of its own, and South America formed new nations and alliances so fast the U.S. State Department had stopped trying to keep up. The world was a mess, and if there was any way out of it these twenty men were the most likely to find it. They couldn’t give up, and yet they couldn’t win. Lyle was trapped in a hell of political boulder-rolling.
“We’ve already talked about embracing the lotion,” said Tanzania. “We spent two entire days last week embracing the lotion, and every scenario was another disaster. Are we talking in circles now?”
“We’ve been talking in circles the entire time,” said Estonia.
“We’ve only talked about embracing the lotion as a weapon,” said Mexico. “I’m talking about accepting and accounting for the realities that ReBirth has thrust upon us. Everyone in this building drinks bottled water, because the water system outside has been contaminated with ReBirth. People all over Manhattan and Upstate New York are turning into Dr. Fontanelle, or into other people, whether they’ve ever used the lotion or not. We’ve had similar reports from Tibet, Russia, Brazil, India, Australia, and today from Mexico City.”
“And that explains his sudden interest,” said Bangladesh. “Some of us have been trying to talk about this for days.”
“Then let’s talk about it,” said France. “There’s ReBirth in the water—that’s a reality. What do we do about it? Can it be filtered out?”
Twenty heads all turned to Lyle, and he shook his head helplessly. “You think you’re the first people to think of that? Unless these lotion dumps were deliberate contaminations, which I doubt, they almost certainly happened through normal sinks and drains and toilets that lead straight back to the standard reclamation plants—which, obviously, did nothing. We could try to augment the filtration process with heat or chemicals or other things, but honestly most of these plants already do pretty much everything they can do without harming the human population, so no, I doubt there’s any way we could get this out of the water supply.”
“If we can’t filter it out of the water system,” said the Philippines, “maybe we can kill it in the body. It’s a virus, right? So can’t we use some kind of antibiotic?”
“Antibiotics are for bacteria,” said Lyle.
The Philippines glared. “Obviously I mean whatever the viral equivalent of an antibiotic is.”
“That’s called ‘plenty of rest and chicken soup,’” said Lyle. “There is no viral equivalent of an antibiotic—a vaccine, maybe, but that could take years to develop, and there’s no guarantee it would even be possible. The way this retrovirus turns everything into itself, a vaccine might strengthen it instead of kill it.”
“But it might work,” said Germany. “We don’t know until we try.”
“If it could be cleaned from water, it would have been,” said China. “If it could be attacked in the body, somebody’s immune system would have stopped them from cloning. None of these things have happened. We need something concrete, and we need it now.”
“We haven’t talked about the future yet,” said India.
“That’s because we’re still trying to make sure we have one,” said Israel.
“Dr. Fontanelle,” said India, standing to address him formally. It was the first time someone had done so, and it got everyone’s attention. “The rumors have dogged us for months, and I must know for certain. Does ReBirth make you immortal?”
The room was quiet. Lyle swallowed, suddenly nervous.
“Only if you use multiple doses,” said Bangladesh. “Each dose sets you to a certain age, and then you age, and then a second dose would reset you back to the same age again.”
“That kind of power could be abused,” said Zambia.
“What do you think everyone’s fighting about?” asked Japan.
“I’m afraid that’s not entirely accurate,” said Lyle. He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. “The first dose you take is technically the only one you ever need. Biological age, as we understand it, is an expression of your DNA at varying stages of its existence. Your genes as an infant were building your body in a very different way than your genes as a teenager, and so on. With ReBirth constantly resetting your genes to a target state, you will effectively never age. That’s not immunity from violent death or anything, but yes, people who have used it even once, even by accident, will never get older, and they will never die from natural causes.”
The delegate from India sat down, his face somber.
“I had hoped this aspect was just a rumor,” said Japan.
“The best we can hope for is ‘flawed extrapolation,’” said Lyle. “I suppose time will tell. But if everything works the way we think it works—and so far it has, flawlessly—then we’re looking at a sizable portion of the world population that is effectively immortal.”
“That,” said Mexico, “changes things.”
“Technically it is the opposite of change,” said Tanzania, “but I know what you mean.”
“Carry this through to its logical conclusion,” said Germany. “What are the estimates these days, fifty million ReBirth users worldwide? Sixty?”
“Counting accidental and unwilling cases,” said Kenya, “we’re probably closer to a hundred.”
“That’s not too bad,” said Nepal. “I mean, in comparison to the entire world population? We’re over seven billion now; that’s less than a tenth of a percent.”
“At least twenty million of those cases are me,” Lyle added, “just in case anyone wants to put a human face on the numbers.”
“Ha ha,” said Estonia drily.
“A tenth of a percent makes a hundred million people sound small,” said Mexico, “but consider that ReBirth is still around, and still infecting people, and unlikely to go anywhere. We’ve accrued a hundred million immortals in only five months—that’s higher than the world birth rate, and it ignores the death rate. If we do the same every five months—if we do even half of that every five months—we’re looking at an overpopulation problem we’ve never even imagined. Inside of, what, thirty-five years, it will have infected the entire world population, and the birth rate will keep adding people to the pool, and ReBirth will ensure that none of them ever leave.”
“So what are our options of curbing this?” asked Japan. “We’ve already talked about getting the ReBirth out of the water, and that won’t work. Maybe we could take the people away from the water—evacuate every contaminated area.”
“And try to fit a world’s worth of people in only half the world’s space,” said India, “resulting in the same overpopulation problem from a different angle.”
“But it wouldn’t fill up as quickly,” said Israel.
“We could reduce the birth rate,” said Zambia, “though I can think of very few humane ways to a
ccomplish that.”
“So let’s talk about the inhumane ways,” said Estonia. “We could kill the immortals.”
“China will not be a party to institutionalized murder,” said China.
“That didn’t bother you fifty years ago,” said Germany.
“Look who’s talking,” said Israel.
“Nobody’s killing anybody,” said Tanzania. “We won’t even consider it.”
“Don’t be so naïve,” said Mexico. “Most of you aren’t part of the New Crusades—Latin America has already been at war for weeks, and most of the world is following.”
“Are you suggesting that the numbers will balance out?” asked Kenya. “Because I don’t want to pin our world’s future on the hope that we’ll all kill each other faster than we can make more people.”
“Will ReBirth really get to everybody?” asked France. “It’s in the water systems of some major cities, but that’s not going to affect the entire world. We’ll still have plenty of normal, mortal humans.”
“So we can solve our population problem by denying people immortality?” asked Samoa. “We’re not fools—we know that this would become a class issue. The rich would buy themselves eternal life, and the poor would die to keep the world from overflowing. None of us should be comfortable with that.”
“So now we’re obligated to give immortality to everyone?” asked Mexico. “I don’t like the idea of a caste system any more than you do, but a world where nobody dies is a world that will run out of space and resources. We’ll be packed so tightly we’ll have nothing to eat but each other—and eating the poor, in my mind, is far worse than oppressing them.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Chad. “We’re supposed to be talking about solutions, not … immortal cannibals.”
“We are talking about realities,” said France. “They’re not pleasant, but they’re not ridiculous, either. Given the nature of ReBirth, this is what will happen. This is where our world is headed. And because the problem is extreme, our solutions will have to be extreme, as well. We may have reached a point where oppression or even execution—as much as I despise them both—may be the only moral choices we can make.”
“So we embrace the lotion,” said Estonia. “Zambia asked for a humane way to reduce the birth rate, and we have one: ReBirth.”
“ReBirth doesn’t alter reproductive function,” said Lyle.
“Not by itself,” said Estonia, “but what happens if we turn everyone into a single gender?”
The room went deathly quiet.
“That’s preposterous,” said Germany.
“Is it?” asked Estonia.
“Yes,” said Tanzania. “You’re talking about ending the human race.”
“What end?” asked Zambia. “The human race is immortal now—that’s the whole problem. Making us all immortal men, some kind of idealized ubermensch, would assure that we have the benefits of immortality without the crippling overpopulation.”
“It’s really kind of a utopian ideal,” said Bangladesh. “An eternity of idealized supermen, with the time to really dig into our problems and solve them, without having to relearn history’s lessons with every new generation—”
“I don’t think it’s a utopia at all,” said India.
Nepal frowned. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not gay,” said India. “And if I’m going to live for a million years, at some point I’m going to want to have sex again.”
Estonia threw up his hands in disgust. “Seriously? That’s your issue here? We’re talking about the end of the human race—of changing that end into a utopian ideal—and all you can think about is sex?”
“It’s not all I think about,” said India, “but I assume I’m not the only one in the room who thinks about it occasionally. We’re all adults here. The people you want to save are human beings, and humans have sex. And in the world you’re proposing, all of that sex would be gay. Everywhere you turn, men and men and men.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” said Chad.
“Nothing wrong for other people?” asked France. “Or nothing wrong for you? Because he’s right, and that’s exactly what we’re discussing here: turning you, and me, and everyone else in the entire world into a gay man. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be a part of it.”
“Then the solution seems obvious,” said China.
“Come up with a different plan?” asked Lyle.
“Turn everyone into women,” said China.
And everyone fell silent again.
“An entire world of lesbians,” said Mexico.
“Immortal lesbians,” said Japan.
“However we do it,” said the Philippines, “the benefits are clear. We eliminate all prejudice, because everyone’s the same. There’s no racism, no class system, no oppression of any kind, because everyone is the same.”
Turning everyone the same reminded Lyle of the prison camp and its ten thousand Lyles. It didn’t fill him with confidence.
“Latinas have won more Miss Universe titles than any other group,” said Mexico. “Obviously the choice should come from us.”
“That’s not how we should choose this,” said Lyle.
“Latinas only win because the judges are biased,” said India. “Our models and actresses are more famous in more countries than anyone else’s.”
“They’re not more famous than ours,” said Chad.
“Too pale,” said Tanzania. “The most beautiful women are African.”
“Or African American,” said Chad. “America’s got everything.”
“The most beautiful women are Asian,” said Japan.
“America … concedes that point,” said Chad. “Let’s get one of those Korean girl groups, the pop stars.”
“Will you listen to yourselves?” Lyle shouted. “The world is ending, literally, right outside your doors, and you’re arguing over supermodels? A thousand different plans to save the world, and the only one you agree on is the one full of lesbian sex?”
“We are stopping a crippling overpopulation problem and ushering in a golden age,” said France. “Immortal supermodel lesbians are a necessary side effect, and wow, that sounds horrible when I try to explain it like that.”
“You’re disgusting,” said Lyle.
“We’re realists,” said Tanzania. “You’ve been in these meetings—you know what’s going on, and how impossible it is to solve. The world is determined to tear itself apart, and we don’t have the power or the influence or the resources to stop it. This plan doesn’t fix our present because nothing can fix our present, but it can fix our future.”
“How are you even going to carry this out?” asked Lyle. “Just … grab some poor girl’s DNA and flood the world with it? Turn everyone in Russia into Victoria Carver and Russia will still get conquered by Victoria. People will still be killed and oppressed by Victoria Carver, and the fact that they’re also Victoria Carver when it happens won’t make it a utopia.”
“Not immediately,” said Estonia, “but you have to give it time. The apocalypse will be terrible, but it will end. The differences that caused it will be forgotten because everyone who survives will be equal. The world will stabilize.”
“It’s not an ideal solution,” said Japan, “but we don’t have any ideal solutions left.”
“So you’re giving up,” said Lyle. “I can’t believe it.”
“Sometimes the paramedics can’t save everyone,” said Mexico. “It’s not giving up to call a dead body dead.”
“We’re not dead!” shouted Lyle.
“What do you want us to do!” cried Tanzania. “We’re not gods. You want us to stop the war? With what political leverage? You want us to win it? With what armies? The only weapon we have left is the one you created, Dr. Fontanelle, and we are trying to use it to build instead of destroy.”
Lyle fumed. “You’re using it to play out an adolescent fantasy with the lives of seven billion people!”
“Then give us a better id
ea!” yelled Samoa, rising to his full height, and the fury in his face made Lyle press back into his chair. “Everyone in this room has suggested solutions, even my staff has suggested solutions, but all you’ve done is shoot them down. You’re waiting for a good idea but there are none—nothing we come up with will make everyone happy, or solve every problem, or fill every need. Nothing good is left. We are choosing the lesser from an army of evils, and if our choice shocks you it is because even a lesser evil is monstrous. Forget the girls, forget the details, forget everything else: this monster is all we have. Give us a better one or leave us alone.”
Lyle looked at him, feeling his hands tremble, his palms sweaty. He looked at the others, at the room, at the high ceilings and the dark corners and the rows of empty tables stretching back into oblivion.
“I thought the world would end in months,” said Lyle softly. “Maybe I was optimistic.”
He stood, turned, and walked out of the room.
56
Wednesday, December 5
2:14 A.M.
Byrne Family Farms, Ireland
9 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Somebody screamed.
Alan Byrne woke frantically, eyes wide, chest heaving. A dark wind moaned outside his windows, creeping ice-cold tendrils through the gaps along the sill. Shadows shook and trembled on his wall—a pale moon shining feebly through a wind-tossed tree. He looked at his wife, but she was lying still; he put a hand on her shoulder, not shaking but simply feeling. She was warm. He leaned close and heard the low hiss of her breath. She was fine. The scream hadn’t come from her.
The wind moaned again, and Alan looked up at the window, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. It must have been the wind, he thought, just a howling gust of wind, but then he heard it again: a high-pitched scream, short and desperate. It was a scream of pain and terror. And it was unmistakably human.
Alan pulled back the covers and sat on the edge of his bed, shivering as he pulled on a pair of thick woolen pants. They were as cold as the room, and he hoped they would warm quickly. He added a heavy flannel shirt and his thickest winter coat, and when he heard the scream again he cursed and ran, shoving his feet inside his boots and racing outside without waiting to tie them. The wind bit his cheeks and whipped his short hair. His lead farmhand, Brendan, was standing in the yard already, scowling at the darkness.